Hidden Depths
by detectivejigsaw
Summary: Moments when Carter is seen to be more than just the awkward man-child in charge of blowing things up. The ones I have in mind so far involve Newkirk, but am open to other ideas. As always, no slash.
1. Stargazer

**I apologize if there are any anachronistic elements to this story, or inconsistencies. I just thought it would be cute.**

* * *

There were times when Corporal Newkirk really hated being a POW. Exhibit A: right now.

Thanks to cheap roofing mixed with a misfired baseball bounced off the roof of the barracks, there was now a disproportionately large hole right above Newkirk's bunk, around the place where his knees usually were. And because Klink was in a particularly cheapskate mood at the moment, he was unwilling to purchase the lumber needed to repair it until it seemed "absolutely necessary."

Thankfully it was late summer, so at least Newkirk didn't have to be too cold, but the hole meant that every time one of the camp's searchlights swept over the roof, he was startled out of his newest attempt at sleeping, leading him to silently curse the name Klink.

With a growl, the Englander vowed that in the morning he would try again to beg Hogan to just use some of their spare lumber to fix it and make up some kind of excuse to the Kommandant, or get a spare blanket to cover the hole, anything just so he could get some bloody sleep-

Below him, the bunk bed and then the floorboards creaked slightly, and something shuffled over to the barracks table. Startled out of his irritable musing, Newkirk turned onto his left side and squinted through the dark. A familiar awkward form with a blanket around his skinny shoulders was sitting on the table.

* * *

"Carter!" Newkirk hissed, pulling himself up on one elbow. "What're you doing? Get back in bed!"

"I can't, there's a meteor shower tonight!" came the excited reply.

"...A what?" _Of all the ridiculous…_

"There's gonna be a bunch of shooting stars going across the sky tonight, and the hole in the roof gives a good view of them! I thought I was gonna have to miss it, because we have curfew, but now I can watch with no problem!" Carter lapsed back into silence.

* * *

In some sense, Newkirk knew that he didn't really need to be annoyed by this. Carter wasn't doing anything to personally affect him, and besides, they weren't doing any big operations right now; so what if Carter wanted to do a little stargazing? But the fact that he was getting pleasure out of something that was causing Newkirk personally a lot of inconvenience and annoyance made him growl, "Ain't you got something better to do, like sleep?"

Carter hopped off the table and tiptoed over in his stocking feet. "Sleep? Haven't you ever watched a meteor shower, Newkirk?"

The Englander gritted his teeth slightly. "No."

"Well, if you had, you'd know that it's impossible to sleep while-wow." His face was clearer in the faint light from outside, and it had lit up in an expression of absolute wonder. "The view is so much better from here."

Carter placed his hands on the edge of Newkirk's bunk, boosting himself up so that his feet were on the edge of his own bunk down below, and he was closer to the hole. "In fact, I bet I could get the very best view if I-"

He was suddenly face to face with a very angry British corporal. "If you're about to suggest spending the whole night sitting on my bunk so you can watch a few comets, you can ruddy well forget it! Now get off and let me get some sleep!"

Carter slowly wilted under his friend's glare. "Oh. Okay." And he stepped down, walking back to the table and trying to make himself comfortable.

* * *

 _Oh, great._

Newkirk groaned inwardly. Carter had given him that look. The hurt, slightly bewildered expression that always made him feel like he'd just kicked a puppy; the look that showed up whenever Carter felt really hurt by being told off or insulted. And of course it made an uncomfortable feeling clench in Newkirk's gut, just like it did every time, making him feel like he'd gone too far in putting a damper on the younger man's impulsive nature.

 _It's not my fault_ , he told himself. _I do need my sleep. And 'e wasn't respecting my boundaries, just because 'e wants to see some stupid stars. I don't have to pander to 'im._

Naturally, now he was completely awake and couldn't make the clenching in his gut go away, no matter what he tried to think about.

Finally, he sighed aloud, and sat up.

"If you kick me or spend all night nattering, I'll break your knees."

Carter seemed to take a second to understand what he meant, before eagerly hopping off the table again and scurrying over; now the puppy in Newkirk's mind was happily wagging his tail.

"Thanks, boy!" he whispered, scrambling onto the top bunk and seating himself cross-legged. And then he just...went still.

* * *

At first Newkirk didn't notice, because he was busy maneuvering his legs away from his friend and trying to find a new comfortable position despite the additional presence. But once he was lying down in a way that he thought he could sleep, he couldn't help noticing.

Carter, the one who never stopped talking and who always seemed to be fidgeting around for one reason or another...was being absolutely quiet and still. Just sitting there and staring up through the little hole in the roof, mouth open slightly, hands drooping in his lap.

 _Well, at least 'e listened to me. Doesn't mean I understand it. Why is 'e so interested?_

* * *

 _What is wrong with me?!_

Even though Carter had done exactly what Newkirk asked, he still found himself unable to sleep! Lie as still as he would, count as many sheep or girls as he did, his stupid brain wouldn't shut up. But the reason this time was different; he privately admitted. It was...curiosity. Curiosity about what could draw Carter's attention that much, make him so dedicated to seeing it that he'd be up late at night just for a tiny glimpse of the night sky through a hole in the roof.

The Englander sat up and scooted around until he was sitting by Carter, not caring if his nightshirt made this process undignified.

"Now, what's so great about seeing-" Three streaks of blue-white fire shot across the sky.

"...Oh."

A tiny flicker crossed Carter's face, which if Newkirk didn't know better he would have said was a smirk.

"The rest of the stars are a little harder to see because of all the searchlights here, but it's still really beautiful, isn't it?" he whispered.

Newkirk found himself nodding quietly, still gazing in some surprise and wonder as more meteors shot past. Even in the moments between, though, the sky was still beautiful, with the few stars they could see sparkling in the darkness. Certainly there were more than he'd ever seen in London.

"...I should have realized earlier that you probably don't get a lot of opportunities to see stuff like this," Carter finally said. "Sorry."

Newkirk shrugged. "It's all right, mate. I've never thought about it that much. But it all really is pretty, innit."

"Yeah. I used to do this all the time back home, even if there wasn't a meteor shower. Sometimes Angry Rabbit and I would take our sleeping bags out into a field and tell stories all night, like the birth of Fallen Star, one of our heroes. His mom went into the sky to marry a star, right where the Big Dipper is-"

He stopped.

"You're going to tell me to shut up now, aren't you?"

There was a pause. Then Newkirk said, "No, go on."

Carter's face split into one of the most delighted smiles he'd ever seen. "Really?!" Just in time he remembered to lower his voice so he wouldn't wake up everyone else.

Newkirk felt another twinge of guilt at how delighted his friend sounded at someone else actually wanting to keep listening to one of his stories. "Yeah, I wanna 'ear about Fallen Star's mum."

With a smile, Carter began telling him, as they kept watching the meteors fly by.

* * *

 **The part about Angry Rabbit and Fallen Star refers to the episode entitled "Drums Along the Dusseldorf," which says that Carter is part Sioux Indian. Fallen Star is an actual figure from Lakota legend, so it seemed fitting.**

 **Review if you want; I like reviews, but don't want to demand them. Just silently beg and plead for input. *cue Carter making a kicked puppy face***


	2. Friend to All Living Things

**The idea for this came from a fanfic I read called "Men and Mice," by Monker, which in turn is inspired by the episode "Operation Briefcase." I don't know if I have to ask Monker's permission before writing this, because I don't actually base it on that story, just got a little inspiration from it and did my own take. Again, sorry if any of it is rushed, feels incomplete, etc.**

* * *

"Let me go!"

Carter struggled to run into the part of the tunnel he had just been forced to vacate, his progress hampered by the fact that Newkirk had him practically in a headlock in his desire to hold him back, out of concern for his safety.

One of the occupational hazards of being the team member in charge of demolition and explosives was that sometimes your experiments would backfire on you.

Newkirk didn't know what explanation Colonel Hogan would make up for Klink when he tried to figure out what had caused the explosion that occurred fifteen seconds ago, and right now he didn't care. All that mattered at the moment was that after running out of the small bend in the tunnel everyone thought of as his lab to escape the billows of ominous, thick yellow smoke now emanating from it, Carter had suddenly gasped and turned to run back into that inferno of death. Hence the situation they were in now.

* * *

Newkirk tried to push him further back from the lab.

"Whatever it is, it can wait until it's no longer a ruddy death trap in there!"

"No it can't!" Carter almost squirmed past that time, until the Englander was able to replant his footing. "Please, this is important!"

"Andrew, stop! Get ahold o' yourself!"

Then, abruptly, Carter stopped struggling. He stood up straight, glared into his friend's eyes, and snapped, "Get your hands off me, Corporal, and stand aside! That's an order!"

Newkirk blinked, and his mouth dropped for a second, before he asked, "Did you just pull rank on me?"

"Do I have to say it again?" Carter demanded, still in this sharp tone that was very unCarterlike. "Move. Now."

Of course Newkirk had no intention of moving, orders or not (Carter's safety was far more important, not that he would be sentimental enough to admit it aloud unless he was sure none of his mates would hear), but his surprise at his friend actually remembering for once that he was the sergeant there caused him to loosen his grip on him, and stop trying to force him out of danger for a second. That was all Carter needed to shove him out of the way and run back into the lab.

* * *

"Carter!"

Newkirk barely had time to yell his name and start to go after the ruddy fool before he was back, clutching a shoebox in his arms and shouting, "Run! I think it's gonna blow again!"

The Englander decided not to waste time asking what in the name of all that was holy he'd gone back in and risked his life for, choosing instead to run with him back to the ladder, and the comparative safety of the barracks.

The next explosion caused Carter to slip on the ladder, and nearly fall because he was still holding the shoebox. But he somehow managed to regain his balance and make it upstairs (so to speak), in time to be surrounded by his fellow POWs and be peppered with questions. He explained apologetically to Hogan about some kind of chemical imbalance that had occurred with his latest experiment, before slumping over to his bunk and sitting down with a thump.

* * *

Hogan started worrying about how this would affect their latest mission, and explaining to the team what he had told Klink, etc. Newkirk barely paid attention. Lebeau could give him the details later or something; he needed to know what was in that shoebox, and he needed to know now.

Speak of the devil, Carter had opened the shoebox, which the Englander noticed had a few holes in the lid, and given a sigh of relief. He was just closing it up again, when Newkirk stormed over and jerked the lid off. He couldn't believe his eyes.

"A MOUSE?!" he roared, thoroughly interrupting Colonel Hogan's plan and causing everyone to whip their heads over to them in surprise. "You risked your life for a bloody MOUSE?!"

Inside the box, along with a coating of dust that was probably a result of the explosion, there was a layer of dirt, which had been pushed up into a burrow on one side and probably had tunnels running underneath. There was a pile of biscuit crumbs and even a few sunflower seeds in a corner, and a spilled dish that used to contain water. And in the center, curled up in a ball, was the aforesaid mouse.

* * *

Carter set the box aside, and jumped to his feet.

"Don't you talk about Felix like that!" he yelled back, flushing slightly around his cheeks and ears. "You would have gone back in if it had been any one of us!"

Newkirk scoffed in amazement, taking a small step back. "A name. 'E's given the rodent a name. I don't believe this. A mouse's not the same as a human, you block'ead! Of all the cock-eyed, ridiculous-"

"I told you not to talk about him like that!" Carter shouted, sounding angrier than they'd ever heard him. "You wouldn't understand, you closed-minded...jerk! He's a person just as much as you are, and-" his voice actually started to crack- "if he's hurt from inhaling that stuff because you wouldn't let me get him sooner, I will never forgive you!"

With that he grabbed the box back up again, and stormed out of the barracks.

Hogan, who had by now gotten over at least some of his shock, called out, "Carter! Come back!"

Too late; the door slammed behind him, leaving behind a deafening silence and a group of very astonished POWs.

* * *

Wiping his eyes on his sleeve, Carter made his way to the area behind the Kommandant's quarters, where there was at least some comparative privacy.

"I'm sorry you had to hear all that," he told Felix softly.

The little gray mouse finally uncurled from the ball he'd been in, apparently frightened by all the noise that had been going on. He twitched his whiskers rapidly, before dashing his paws across his head a few times.

"I don't think you were in there long enough to be hurt, but it's hard to tell. Some of those chemicals were pretty dangerous. And there's a chance some of it got in your fur. Think it's time you had a bath," Carter said. He reached into the box and pulled Felix out. "And while we're at it, we should probably change your dirt and get you some fresh food. Sorry, because it'll disrupt your system, but I don't want you getting sick. Let's go find you some clean, warm water."

* * *

When Newkirk finally came looking for Carter, he found him sitting by a corner of the fence, scooping up spoonfuls of dirt and grass and pouring them into the box. The mouse was in his front coat pocket, judging by the occasionally-moving lump up by his heart.

Hearing his approach, Carter glanced at him with a small turn of his head, before shifting so that his back was to him.

It stung far more than it should have, but as I said, Carter was not known for getting angry with anyone; he was one of the most good-natured people in the camp. Insults and jibes usually were like water off a duck's back to him, and if they did go too far, he was more likely to be hurt than angered. This behavior over a mouse...it confused Newkirk. But Carter was his friend, and if there was something wrong between them, he wanted to fix it.

"...You're right," he finally said, after a moment of racking his brains trying to figure out what to say.

Carter looked at him again, before continuing to shovel dirt into the box.

"I don't understand," Newkirk went on. "But maybe if you explained to me, I could try to. You know, like with the stars."

"You don't think he's important," Carter whispered, setting down the spoon and reaching into his pocket to draw out the now-clean mouse. "You said his life doesn't matter just because he's not a human."

Newkirk winced slightly, before sitting down on his haunches next to him. "I didn't understand what was so great about a meteor shower either. Please. I-I'm sorry for assuming 'e wasn't-shouldn't be important to you."

He couldn't quite bring himself to agree that the rodent's life was important. Call him a heartless b_, but he couldn't. He didn't particularly dislike mice, not as much as his sister Mavis did anyway, but they were vermin. Pure and simple. But he could see that it was important to Carter, and right now what counted was that he'd hurt his friend's feelings by insulting it-him, he should probably get used to thinking of it as a him.

Rather than setting Felix back into his box right away, Carter let him run back and forth across his gloved hand for a moment. Then he said softly, "He was the first friend I made here."

* * *

While Newkirk was still digesting that, he went on, "Before the colonel let me in on the operation, and I got to know all you fellas. I was lonely, and scared, and didn't know how long I was going to be stuck here. Then I found Felix's hole over Tunnel Five. I started leaving him crumbs every once in a while, and he got used to me, and eventually it reached the point where he let me hold him. And I just found him easy to talk to. So he became my only friend, until I started helping out." With a small smile, Carter ran a finger of his other hand-for once without a glove on it-across Felix's tiny ears.

Newkirk was amazed. "I've never 'eard of anyone taming a mouse so easily before."

Carter gave an innocent shrug. "I'm good with animals." His eyes suddenly brightened. "I found out he's ticklish. Wanna see?"

Without letting Newkirk have a chance to say yes or no, he flipped the mouse onto his back and started gently vibrating his fingers up and down on his belly. The mouse squirmed and kicked his tiny feet, and Newkirk could barely make out tiny squeaking noises issuing from his mouth.

"That's how he laughs," Carter explained with a smile. "I think he likes it. He always follows my hands around afterwards, and the more I've done it, the more he's trusted me."

* * *

 _This little 'eart-to-'eart is going to make this next part a lot 'arder._

Newkirk cleared his throat. "Colonel's worried about 'ow close you are to this mouse. 'E's not sure if it's…safe, for you to keep 'im, if you're gonna risk your life for 'im and mean we might lose our tech sergeant over 'im."

That angry flash of defiance came back into Carter's eyes.

"I'm not getting rid of him. I don't care if it means risking court martial."

The awkward puppy that Newkirk often imagined Carter as was, at this moment, a wolf protecting his cub. It was shocking...but somewhat impressive.

"'E's not necessarily demanding that, yet. But 'e worries about 'im being a liability in the future."

"I'll make sure he's not put in that kind of danger again," Carter promised, putting the mouse back in his box. "I was careless this time and forgot to take him with me when I first ran away from the explosion. Most of the time he just lives in his burrow under my bunk, but I thought he'd like to see my new experiment. That's all."

 _…Ruddy Carter. More concerned about 'is life than yours. The thing is, I know you'd act the same if it'd been a human who'd been in danger._

For some odd reason, Newkirk had to swallow again, harder.

* * *

Carter looked at him solemnly.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you earlier. You didn't know about Felix."

The Englander shrugged.

"It's okay, Andrew. I should've known it'd be something important to make you go back in." He reached out and pretended to pull a small peppermint from behind Carter's ear. "'Ere, you can 'ave a treat."

The younger man smiled in delight, popping it into his mouth. "Thanks."

* * *

 **By the way, they've discovered that rats will laugh and become more affectionate if you tickle them (there's a fun Youtube video about it, in fact), so I figured why not a mouse?**


	3. Sweetheart

Fraulein Hilda, Klink's under-appreciated-unless-the-kommandant-or-some-other-man-was-trying-to-romance-her secretary, was busily organizing the file cabinets when someone entered the office.

She knew it wasn't Hogan, because A) he would probably have sneaked up and kissed her neck already, and B) whoever it was tripped over the doorway, and had to stagger to regain their balance. Hogan was usually far too graceful for that.

Not Klink or Sergeant Schultz either; even though she could imagine either of them being that clumsy, the step was too light for the latter and too hesitant for the former. But it was definitely someone wearing boots, based on their tread, meaning probably either a POW or one of the soldiers; the kommandant would have told her if anyone new was coming today. So finally she glanced over her shoulder to see who it was.

"Sergeant Carter?"

The young man gave her a shy smile and shuffled his feet a little, hands behind his back.

"Um, hi, Fraulein Hilda."

The secretary looked at him curiously. "Does Colonel Hogan need something?"

"...Not that I know of. I mean, he probably will at some point because we're working on-something I'm not supposed to tell you about yet-" Carter's ears turned a little red- "but that's not really the reason why I came here, or really anything to do with it."

Hilda tried to smother a giggle at how Carter was stumbling over his own words as she closed the cabinet drawer and sauntered in his direction. "Then what are you here for?"

Another nervous little shuffle. "Well...I-I heard it's your birthday today." Shyly Carter pulled a little, elegantly wrapped package from behind his back. "So I got you something."

Hilda couldn't help giving a little delighted gasp.

"Oh, you shouldn't have!" She took the package from him, and sat down at her desk to open it. And she gasped again at the sight of a simple, yet elegant, hair clip decorated with tiny sunflowers.

* * *

Anyone else would have been surprised at the fact that a prisoner of war would be able to give her something like this, under the circumstances. Hilda, of course, was used to the occasional gifts of chocolates, nylons, and perfume (not to mention romantic encounters with Hogan)-but this was special. It wasn't trying to get anything from her, or trying to win her affections (not to her knowledge, anyway). It was just because Carter had remembered her birthday.

Still smiling, she carefully slid the clip into the side of one of her pale plaits, before standing up and going to the sergeant.

"Thank you," she told him sincerely, before leaning forward and giving him a quick kiss on the cheek.

The redness around his ears spread to his cheeks, and Carter giggled a little.

"Careful," he said, "the colonel might think I'm trying to steal you." Realizing how that sounded a second later, he backpedaled, "I'm not-Not that you-I mean-"

Hilda laughed again. "It's all right, Carter. I understand what you mean." She caressed the clip with the tips of her fingers. "Thank you again for this; it's very beautiful."

Carter smiled. "Happy birthday, Fraulein Hilda."

Then he practically skipped out of the kommandantur.

* * *

Later, Hogan showed up with a bouquet of long-stemmed red roses and a bottle of champagne (and of course, Hilda asked no questions about where they'd come from, as long as she was allowed to partake). But as they shared a drink while snuggled together on the loveseat, Hogan noticed the sunflowers decorating Hilda's braid.

"That's nice," he commented, running his fingers across them. "Another gift?"

Hilda smiled. "Yes. A friend gave it to me."

* * *

 **Believe it or not, I'm not trying to ship Carter and Hilda. I just like the idea of him being considerate enough to remember her birthday and get her a present. It's exemplified in the title: the way I see it, Carter is an absolute sweetheart.**

 **I also tried to give Hilda more development than in the show; do you like it?**


	4. Trickster

**First of all, sorry I didn't post last week; I went to Comic Con, and got distracted by other stuff when I finally got home.**

 **Second, this one might be a little crack, depending on your definition, but it was such a fun idea that I couldn't resist. Sorry if I didn't characterize Klink and/or Schultz right; I haven't really tried them before.**

* * *

With a blissful sigh, Colonel Klink settled in his office chair to do paperwork.

Yes, it sounds odd for him to be happy about performing such a menial task, but think about it: if he had time to do paperwork, it meant that no mischief was occurring in his camp, and he would have a bit of peace. Also, if Klink got his paperwork done, Berlin would have no reason to be especially displeased with him, meaning less need to do things like send the Gestapo to investigate him, or have General Burkhalter breathe down his neck-essentially, the Kommandant was in heaven.

It was unbelievable how much paperwork could arise from such a successful camp; never any need to fill out forms explaining how prisoners had escaped, or riots had broken out-granted, there were incidents like the Tiger tank that had broken out of the rec hall, or more recent ones like that hole in the roof of Barracks 2 (Klink had finally been able to spare some lumber for it, after Hogan complained that rendering a place unsuitable for prisoners to live with reasonable comfort was in violation of the Geneva Convention, because it was 'inhumane treatment')-but on the whole, he thought things were nice and quiet here as they waited out the war-

The sound of feet outside his far office window jolted Klink out of his peaceful mindset.

 _No. Tell me there's not an escape attempt-_

 _If there was, wouldn't there be shouting?_

A shudder of fear went through him.

 _Maybe it's another assassination attempt. Someone wants to kill me!_

But, if he was truly honest with himself...Klink knew he wasn't important enough for anyone to want to kill. Except maybe Burkhalter when he was utterly exasperated with him. But even then, he wouldn't waste money on an assassin, he'd just order a guard to shoot him, or cut out the middleman and do the job himself. He tried not to think about how truly pathetic that made him.

Instead, quietly picking up his heaviest paperweight (just in case), he crept across the office, crouched down slightly as he did, until he was able to peek out the window.

Nobody was there.

Just as Klink was starting to straighten up, feeling very foolish (while at the same time wondering if he'd started hallucinating), he heard a muffled noise from just below the window. Raising the paperweight again and trying to consider how much force he'd need to use it if the worst should occur, he craned his neck-and saw a figure curled up on the ground just below him.

After a moment of searching his memory, he identified him as Sergeant Carter. The awkward one. He was huddled up, one gloved hand crammed into his mouth, still making that muffled noise. It took Klink another moment to realize that he was giggling. Sitting and making a soft, snorty giggling sound, but trying to be quiet about it.

 _What on earth-?_

And, naturally, he was about to demand what was going on, when both Kommandant and prisoner jumped about a foot at the enraged bellow of " _CARTER_!" that came ringing from the barracks.

Klink rushed to the window overlooking that side of camp, in time to see Corporal Newkirk come running out of Barracks Two towards Klink's office. Oddly enough, he was barefoot...and there seemed to be something wrong with his toes…

* * *

Carter realized that Newkirk knew where he was, and was coming to get him.

 _Shoot._

He didn't wait for Newkirk to catch him, of course; he jumped up and took off running just before the Englander rounded the corner. Not fast enough for Newkirk to avoid seeing him, though; he heard the racing of footsteps (and the occasional curse as Newkirk stepped on a sharp rock or a thorn) behind him, and increased in speed.

Moving at the speed of terror (which in many circumstances is infinitely faster than the speed of light could ever hope to be), Carter flew across the camp, looking frantically for a good defensive position. He found one.

* * *

Sergeant Schultz was minding his own business, patrolling near the gates, keeping a watch on the prisoners and prepared to threaten them with his (empty) rifle if any of them tried to get out that way. He was not prepared, however, for Carter to come running and duck behind him.

"What-what-what-" he started to splutter.

"Sorry about this, Schultz, I just need to borrow you for a bit-"

"I can see you, Carter!" Newkirk bellowed, dashing towards them. "You can't 'ide from me!"

"I'm not hiding!" Carter called back, "He's my shield!"

As the Englander reached them, he lunged at Carter, who immediately circled around to the other side of Schultz. It gave the old guard a moment to see what the problem was. Newkirk's toenails...he had to stifle a bubble of laughter that was welling up…

His toenails were bright green, with a little pink heart in the center of each one.

* * *

With an angry growl, Newkirk chased Carter around the other way; Carter dodged his grasp with a frightened squeak. This routine went on for about ten more seconds, before Newkirk finally anticipated where the younger man would dodge next, and quickly closed a hand around his wrist, starting to drag him out from behind Schultz. The glint in his eyes filled Carter with a primal terror, and he prepared himself for inevitable destruction-

"What's going on over here?!"

Hogan, followed by Kinch and Lebeau, jogged over, the colonel with hands on his hips like a father who'd come home to find his children fighting. Carter took the opportunity to slip out of Newkirk's grasp and dodged back behind his shield.

Newkirk straightened up, cursing softly as he stubbed his toe on another rock, and said, "Colonel, I demand a court martial for Sergeant Andrew J. Carter!"

Hogan raised his eyebrows. "On what charge?"

"...Defacing a junior officer!"

All three POWs looked down at their fellow's elegantly painted toenails. All three faces scrunched up as they began fighting not to laugh. Newkirk was not amused.

Finally, Hogan got a bit of a grip on himself.

"Newkirk-" he snorted, and had to start again- "Newkirk, I'm sorry, but I'm pretty sure this wouldn't be considered serious enough for a court martial."

"It-what-you-" Newkirk spluttered angrily for several seconds, gesturing at Carter, fingers twisted into claws. Carter shrank as far behind Schultz as he could, looking like a frightened child, in accordance with Hogan's role as the parent.

"Carter, what was the meaning of this behavior?" Hogan asked, peering over Schultz's shoulder at him.

"You said those guys needed a diversion, and to use our imaginations," Carter whispered. "And he was napping with his socks off, and Hilda had some polish handy, and...it just came to me."

* * *

Everyone stared at him in some surprise (including Schultz, who of course had no clue what they were talking about, and wanted to know even less).

Yes, they'd needed to give the three members of the Underground they were sheltering at the moment a chance to slip away with the information they were smuggling. But Hogan had been coming up with a plan of his own, and had been about to put it into action when this whole fracas started.

"...How do you know they'd know what to do? They might still be in the tunnel."

"No, I told them to head out when they heard Newkirk yelling my name. They should be gone by now." He gave Hogan a timid smile. "Sorry I didn't say something, but I figured it'd be more realistic if he was really angry."

Hogan glaced at Lebeau. "Lebeau, go and check just in case."

"Oui, mon colonel." The little Frenchman ran back to the barracks.

"Tu-tu-tunnel?!" Schultz leaned over slightly, eyes bulging. "Colonel Ho-gan, _please_ , you are not supposed to be digging tunnels! You are not supposed to be smuggling people out of camp-"

"Don't worry, Schultz, they're not our people." Hogan placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, patted it slightly. "It's just some nice German civilians we're smuggling out of the country-"

He smirked as Schultz slapped his hands over his ears, nearly smacking himself with his own rifle.

"I know NOTHING!" he bellowed.

* * *

Perfect timing, of course, for Klink to come scurrying up.

"What is the meaning of this?!" he demanded. "Hogan, there had better be an amazing explanation-"

He glanced down in surprise at Newkirk's bare feet, and to everyone's surprise he, too, stifled a snicker for a second.

Newkirk growled, and stomped aside until he was sure it would be easy for any of the guard towers to see him.

"Yes, I've got painted toenails!" he bellowed to the world in general, lifting a foot and brandishing it. "Anyone else wanna see?!"

"Just some hijinks among my men, Kommandant," Hogan said smoothly. "Nothing big."

Klink hmphed in annoyance. "You should keep your men under better control. My men would never perform such a juvenile prank on each other."

"Well, it's not their fault," the POW wheedled. "They're probably going stir crazy from such a long period of forced inactivity. Maybe if you opened up the rec hall tonight-"

"No!" The Kommandant looked appalled at his audacity at making such a suggestion. "Just make sure there are no more disturbances today!" And he tucked his stick under his arm, and marched back to his office, looking like an overgrown vulture.

* * *

Lebeau reappeared at Hogan's side, saluted, and whispered, "They made it, colonel. On their way to England."

The colonel smiled. "Not bad, Carter."

Carter smiled back, pleased that A) his plan had worked, and B) nobody was mad at him for it.

Well, almost nobody...

* * *

As they made their way to the barracks, Newkirk glared at Carter.

"You're still a dead man walking. Remember, I know where you sleep."

Carter glanced around Kinch (who had become his new temporary shield) at him. "I know," he said sheepishly.


	5. Devoted Grandson

**First of all, I want to say that I got the idea for this one from a fanfic called "The Dig," by M. Vernet. The characters of Sammy and the grandpa are hers; I just borrowed them with her permission. Well, technically I only asked permission to use the grandpa, but I am giving her full credit for Sammy, who honestly is just a passing mention anyway, so if you are offended, M. Vernet, please don't sue me.**

 **Second of all, I looked up Lakota funeral rituals to make sure I wrote about it correctly, but I'm sorry if I offend anyone by making any big errors (such as outdated rituals or something) or coming off as racist; I swear I don't mean to. Anyway, tallyho!**

* * *

Roll call was mercifully over, and the prisoners slipped back into the barracks to escape the frost outside which heralded the coming winter (and get a much better breakfast than they would in the mess hall, courtesy of Corporal Lebeau).

Carter, unusually, seemed more interested in going back to sleep than eating. He leaned his head on one hand as he sat at the table, and his blue eyes drooped. In fact, he was leaning further and further askew, when a hand tapping his shoulder startled him awake.

"Huh?!"

Sergeant Kinchloe frowned in concern as he withdrew his hand. "Carter? You okay?"

The other sergeant smiled up at him. "Oh, hi Kinch. Sorry, I had trouble sleeping. Weird dreams."

Kinch nodded in understanding, and passed him a mug of coffee. "Maybe this will wake you up."

"Thanks."

He sipped the coffee thoughtfully.

"Really weird dreams…" he murmured again.

Hogan decided to humor him.

"What about?" he asked, leaning over so Carter would know he was paying attention.

He only needed to answer with one word. "Grandpa."

"Oh, _no_ …" Newkirk groaned.

* * *

Some time after revealing that he was part Sioux, Carter had started bending everybody's ears who would listen about his beloved grandfather. Grandpa Sam, also known by his Lakota name Wambleeska (White Eagle), had been instrumental in the raising of Carter, his older brother Sammy (named after the old man), and Angry Rabbit whenever the latter came to visit. If Carter was to be believed, his grandpa was the best fisherman, best hunter, best storyteller, and best general person in the entire world, leading Newkirk to grumble after another gusto-filled tale about him that he should have a ruddy movie contract or something.

Carter didn't seem to notice the jibe.

"Can't remember much," he mused. "Just that he was there, and...I think we were in a flying shoe? Something like that."

Hogan snorted. "You remember your dreams better than I do."

Carter went back to his breakfast, and seemed to more or less forget about the dream.

* * *

A week later, Schultz reluctantly entered the barracks to distribute mail-instantly he was mobbed by prisoners starving for news from home.

" _Please_! Colonel Hogan, make them stop!" he wailed, as men hungrily snatched the letters from his hands, nearly tearing them in their eagerness.

Hogan purred, "Relax, Schultz, you'd only be in danger if you had a stamp and an address written on you."

"Ha ha, jolly joker," Schultz grumbled. After Carter eagerly retrieved his letter from his father, the big man retreated to safety, slamming the door behind him. Then the men dissipated to their preferred reading spots to catch up on their families and/or friends. For Carter, this was downstairs, in his lab.

* * *

Ever since he'd woken up one afternoon to find his toenails painted bright green with little pink hearts, Newkirk had been thinking of ways to get back at Carter. Admittedly, it wasn't the worst thing in the world he could have done; it was also for a good cause. But the Englander's masculinity had been compromised; this insult could not go unavenged.

Not anything disproportionate, though; Newkirk was not a cruel man, and he would also (secretly, he hoped) rather cut off his own hand than do anything to actually hurt Carter. So this required a great deal of thought and strategy.

The solution he finally hit upon was the good old 'snake-on-a-spring-hidden-inside-a-cracker-box' trick. It was unexpected, out of the ordinary, and would cause equal measures of shock and annoyance-in every way, the punishment fit the crime.

Grinning to himself, Newkirk found out from Lebeau where Carter was, and slipped down the ladder into the tunnel.

Of course, he wouldn't just offer him the box; that would be too obvious, make him suspicious. Besides, it didn't have the right kind of finesse.

No, Newkirk was going to be far more diabolical. He was going to go into the lab and make idle small talk, make sure Carter wasn't blowing himself up, then _leave the box there and slip out_. Carter would probably think he'd brought it down himself at some point-he was always bringing snacks with him-and open it when he got hungry, and then: boom!

With a slight snicker the Englander slipped around the corner, and started to enter the lab-

All remains of his grin dropped from his face.

* * *

Carter was sitting on the floor, crying.

Well, at least Newkirk assumed he was crying; his head was buried in his curled-up knees, and his shoulders were shaking, and small, shuddering breaths were coming from his mouth. As he quietly stepped further into the lab, he could tell that they were sobs; Carter _was_ crying.

 _What's going on? What 'appened?_

Newkirk's gaze landed on the letter lying on the floor in front of him, looking like it had been dropped from shocked, nerveless fingers.

 _Something bad back 'ome, then._

The cracker box slid into his pocket without a second's hesitation. Now was no time to be thinking about petty revenge; his friend was in pain.

Hesitantly, Newkirk crossed the room until he was able to lever himself to the floor beside Carter. Then, with a touch of embarrassment but thinking it was what needed to be done at the moment, he slipped an arm around Carter's back, gently pulling him against his side. Carter jumped a bit when he first felt his touch, but then, seeming to realize who it was without looking up, he relaxed against his side, and went on crying.

Newkirk said nothing, didn't ask any questions. He just waited, and continued giving his one-armed hug, occasionally patting his shoulder.

When Carter finally calmed down a bit, Newkirk asked softly, "Bad news?"

Carter took a moment to snuffle, and rub his face on his sleeves. Then he raised his teary face and whispered, "Grandpa's dead."

Newkirk felt his stomach twist. After a second, he asked, "Do you know 'ow?"

A small shrug. "He was old. Mom went in one morning to wake him up, and-" Another sob.

After a second, he went on, "Before I left, I had the feeling he might die while I was gone. He'd been around so long, and he was getting so tired. But I didn't think-I-it's so stupid! I wasn't there-I didn't get to say-"

He buried his face in his knees again.

* * *

Newkirk had not been that close to his own grandparents. His father's mum and dad died before he was born, and his mum's folks were still in Wales, so he'd only met them a few times. So he couldn't say he understood exactly what Carter was feeling right now. But he'd had loved ones die before, so he at least knew how that felt. And he knew there were no real words for something like this. So he once again kept his mouth shut while Carter wept.

When this fresh wave of grief subsided, Carter finally uncurled himself. "Sorry, you probably didn't want to hear all this since you get so sick of me talking about him."

It was a bit like a kick in his already-tormented stomach. "Andrew-"

"I-I'm upset and kind of taking it out on you. Sorry," Carter said again, this time with less bitterness.

"You don't 'ave to apologize, mate. Not for this." Newkirk pulled a comparatively clean handkerchief (which he'd nicked from Schultz during the mail rush) out of his sleeve, which he proffered to the younger man. Carter began rubbing his face into it, and blowing his nose.

When he saw that Newkirk seemed to have no objection to his continuing to speak, he went on, "Pop says they're keeping some of his things for me. Things he wanted me to have. But they're worried the Krauts will steal them or something if they try to send them to me now. And my aunt's gonna be the Keeper of the Soul."

At Newkirk's questioning look, he explained, "It's a ceremony where they take a lock of the dead person's hair, wrapping it in a buckskin, to make a Soul Bundle. The Keeper watches over it for about a year, and during that time has to live without conflict." His face scrunched up. "If I'd been there, I would have been the Keeper. But-it's not a good idea for me to try to have a harmonious life right now."

Despite his clumsy awkwardness and tendency to get into no end of trouble, Newkirk privately admitted that Carter would have been perfect for that role. All he said out loud was, "I'm so sorry, Carter."

Platitude though it might be, it was the best thing he could think of to say.

They sat in silence, one offering comfort, one trying to accept it. Then Carter cleared his throat. "There's a full moon tonight."

Newkirk glanced at him. "Yeah?"

"I want to go out."

"...Huh?"

Carter nodded, looking more serious than he'd ever seen him. "To say goodbye. Find a good place to have a wake for him. I missed the funeral."

Newkirk knew better than to try to talk him out of it; Carter needed the opportunity. And if such a thing had ever happened to him, he'd want a chance to have a funeral too. A private, home-away-from-home funeral. He was prepared to go with Carter to ask Hogan's permission, prepared to argue the man's ear off if he had to.

He wasn't prepared for Carter to ask, "Would you come with me?"

The Englander blinked. "Me? What-why me?"

"You're my friend," was the simple reply, which secretly warmed Newkirk's heart. "And it would be safer than me going out by myself."

"Then yeah, sure. I don't mind." After a second of thought, Newkirk asked, "You planning on telling the colonel?"

Carter shook his head no, to Newkirk's surprise. "I don't know if he'd understand. He'd probably say it's too dangerous for a 'silly funeral rite' or something like that."

"I don't think you give me enough credit," said Hogan.

* * *

Both Carter and Newkirk jumped, and leaped to their feet when they saw him standing in the entryway of the lab. His normal impertinent grin was replaced by a sympathetic frown, and he said gently, "I'm sorry about your grandpa."

The tech sergeant gave him a weak smile. "It's fine, colonel. It hurts, but it's fine."

 _That's not contradictory at all_ , Newkirk thought.

Hogan stepped inside and squeezed Carter's shoulder. "You think you can be back by morning roll call?"

"Yeah."

"I don't need to tell both of you to be careful?"

"No, sir," chorused both men.

"Good. Then you have my blessing."

* * *

"This is a good place," Carter murmured.

They stopped in a grove about twenty minutes from Stalag 13, where they could easily see the moon shining. Carter looked around to make sure all was relatively quiet, and then sat down on the ground. He picked up a piece of hollow log he'd found earlier, which he smacked with his hand. Then he began to sing.

It was like nothing Newkirk had ever heard; Carter had explained that it was a Lakota memorial song, and normally it would be accompanied by a drum and sung a lot louder, but he didn't want them to get shot or captured, so he was forced to improvise with the log and singing at indoor voice level.

Despite not being any sort of understandable speech (not to the Englander, anyway), it expressed the feeling of grief and loss perfectly. Apparently it was a prayer for Grandpa Sam to find peace, as well as a tribute to his memory. Without getting too maudlin about it, Newkirk felt himself tearing up a little bit as he listened.

When it ended, Carter set down the log, before pulling a knife out of his pocket.

Newkirk stared at it in slight alarm.

"What's that for?"

He'd heard stories about how some Indians would cut their arms and legs after a loved one died; he wasn't sure the colonel would appreciate it going that far-

Carter took a lock of his own hair in his other hand, and chopped it off, before letting the pieces scatter in the slight breeze.

"Oh."

After a second, Newkirk pulled out his own knife, making it Carter's turn to be surprised.

"You don't have to-"

Newkirk held up the clump of hair for Carter to see, letting it dissipate from between his fingers.

"What are friends for, if not shows of solidarity? Besides, I think-I think I'd 'ave liked your grandpa, if I'd ever met 'im."

A small, timid smile touched Carter's lips.

"Thanks, Newkirk."

* * *

As they trudged back to camp, Carter started singing again in Lakotaese, or whatever the word was for the Lakota language, Newkirk didn't know. It was different this time; gentler, more playful.

"What's that?" Newkirk asked.

"Grandpa made it up for me. It's a lullaby he used to sing for me at night when I was a kid." Carter cleared his throat. "In English, it goes like this:

 _Run, little deer._

 _Run faster than the wolf._

 _Hide, little deer._

 _Hide better than the fox._

 _Fly, little deer._

 _Fly higher than the eagle._

 _Eat, little deer._

 _Eat more than the rabbit_."

Newkirk snorted with laughter.

"It...loses something in the translation." Carter laughed softly too.

"Angry Rabbit must 'ate the last part."

"Yeah, he always complained that I was Grandpa's favorite, and that's why it's in there…"

* * *

 **Another mourning ritual is apparently driving pegs through your limbs, but I wasn't sure I wanted to go quite that far with Carter. Yes, this one is sadder than the others, but I figure that way it makes these vignettes a little more diverse.**


	6. Conscientious

**I'm sorry I didn't post last week; I was kind of stuck on what to write, and then when I got an idea I got distracted by other things. So I'm making up for it now by giving you a nice long one.**

* * *

It was dark in the forest outside Hammelburg, except where the lights from the local tavern and a few other houses were able to penetrate the shadows. And it was relatively quiet, except for the chirping of crickets, the prowling of wild animals, and the sound of muffled cursing in French from a small spot among the trees. Then the air was permeated with the loud crack of twigs being broken, followed shortly thereafter by a muffled, "What-whoa!" and another, louder crunching noise mixed with a thud.

There was a frightened silence, before more rustling, and an annoyed Cockney voice hissing, "I dunno why the Lord bothered giving you feet, since you never seem to do anything but trip over them!"

"Sorry," said the voice of the one who had fallen, sheepishly.

"Sorry?!" the one who had been cursing in French spluttered. "You could have been blown up if you weren't careful!"

"Could not!" was the retort. "These are designed against that sort of accident specially."

"Ssh!" the first voice snapped. "Did you 'ear something?"

Another frightened silence, before finally the sound of six feet sneaking from the boundary of the forest into Hammelburg.

* * *

Lebeau wondered-again-if they really needed to bring Carter with them. So far, the only useful thing he had contributed to this mission was the bombs, and they only needed them as a last resort, in case they couldn't figure out which of the blueprints they were trying to photograph was the real one and had to just destroy everything. Newkirk could probably do that; he was an expert at finding forgeries. And Lebeau was the only one small enough to get inside and open the door, so that was why he was going. While Carter stumbled along behind them, probably alerting everything within ten miles of their presence and generally being a nuisance.

Don't get me wrong; it wasn't that Lebeau didn't like Carter, or view him as an important member of the team. But...there were times when he had trouble putting up with him.

Everyone else in their main group seemed to have it a little easier-Hogan, Newkirk, Kinch. Maybe it was because they all had more experience with children or being in parental roles. Newkirk had nine brothers and sisters. Hogan was basically everyone's father/big brother figure. Kinch had tons of nieces and nephews he'd gotten experience looking after, and who he would occasionally show everyone photographs of. Lebeau was an only child; he'd never had to spend time supervising someone with the attention span (and sometimes mental capacity) of a monkey who'd been drinking too much coffee. This meant that he got frustrated with Carter more than the American sometimes deserved.

Granted, Newkirk would often get frustrated and exasperated with Carter too, but they'd gotten closer ever since Carter's grandpa died, and besides, the younger man just naturally gave him the same kind of devotion he would a big brother, so the Englander was somewhat more patient with him than when they'd first met. The only way Lebeau knew to handle him, on the other hand, was shove some food in his mouth whenever he wanted to shut him up and didn't feel like just saying so.

* * *

The three men, dressed in civilian clothes to blend in with the populace, wandered towards their destination, prepared to start acting like a bunch of drunk buddies having a night on the town if anyone looked at them funny. It took about ten minutes, but to their relief they managed not to draw any undue attention. They slipped around the back of the house, where Newkirk got to work opening the tiny window from the outside, while Lebeau and Carter stood together to block him from view of anyone who might happen to come this way.

Lebeau's nerves were more than a little on edge at the moment; they always were on one of these trips. It seemed like he could hear every noise in Dusseldorf-every time mugs clinked together in the tavern, every time a foot knocked against a cobblestone no matter how far away it was, every click as Newkirk jimmied the lock, every chewing noise-

 _Every chewing noise?!_

It took him a moment to realize where that was coming from. Carter had something in his mouth which made popping and cracking sounds.

 _Gum. He brought gum on a mission._

Carter's mouth popped the gum again, which in Lebeau's nervous state sounded as loud as a gunshot.

"Do you have to do that?!" he growled.

Carter glanced at him. ""Do what?"

"Make all that noise!" Seeing that Carter was even more confused, he finally hissed, "You're chewing."

Carter shrugged. "I have an oral fixation. It gives me something to do."

"Okay!" Newkirk called softly, as the window clicked open. "In you go, Louis."

" _Mon D_u_ ," Lebeau muttered, before accepting Newkirk's help to boost him through the window, telling himself that it was mean to be surprised at the fact that Carter knew what an oral fixation was.

* * *

After a while Lebeau opened the door so Newkirk could slip inside, leaving Carter to keep watch.

He hummed to himself softly, absentmindedly blowing a big gum bubble and then chiding himself for it.

 _Focus, Carter. If anyone were to walk up right now and want to know what you're doing here, they won't be able to take you seriously with a big bubble popping out of your mouth._

 _Which honestly isn't fair, though. Why should they think less of me for wanting something to chew? Especially because it keeps me kind of quiet, and Newkirk's always going on about how I talk too much. And it's not like I'm being disrespectful or anything, and-_

Something long and sharp dug into the side of his neck, nearly making him swallow his gum.

"Dein Geld oder dein Leben," a voice whispered in his ear.

 _Your money or your life._

* * *

Surprisingly, the first thought that crossed Carter's mind was, _Are you kidding me?_

Soon after that came, _I didn't know anyone said that anymore_ , with the runner-up being _Oh no what do I do?_

Speaking in his best lower-class German (and moving the gum to his cheek), Carter said, "I don't have any money."

Which was the truth; they hadn't seen the need to bring any.

"That's what they all say," his assailant snarled. "Now hand it over before I make another breathing hole in your neck."

 _What would the colonel do?_

 _Well, first of all he wouldn't be in this situation because he'd have the sense to not let someone sneak up on him. But if he did…_

Carefully Carter lifted the foot closest to the building, and knocked it against the wall. One hard tap, then two softer ones. Morse code for D, for danger, and the signal for something happening that required subtlety on the inside team's part.

"Keep still!" The knife pinched his neck slightly, making it hard to breathe for a second.

"Sorry."

* * *

 _Well, do something! Don't just stand here and wait to be rescued._

 _The bombs…_

 _Oh yeah, like that'll do any good. You blow him up, you'll just blow up too. And we don't want to draw any undue attention, remember? Remember what the phrase "last resort" means? And that...it's one thing to blow up bridges and fire out of airplanes and stuff, it's another to actually stand there and be the direct cause of someone's death-_

The thief jabbed him again, drawing his attention back.

"Just give me the money!" Despite the fierce tone, he sounded frightened. And young. Probably not much older than Carter. And very desperate.

"I'm sorry, but I don't have any."

 _How am I staying so calm? I should be panicking by now. Maybe I am and I just don't realize it._

The thief seemed equally confused. Slowly he circled around until he was facing Carter, still keeping the knife at his neck. In the darkness, Carter couldn't really see his face, but from what he could see his suspicions were confirmed about the man's age.

"...Are you…?" He stopped himself from whatever he was about to ask, and instead scowled. "You're lying. If you won't hand it over willingly, I'll search for it myself." And he began digging into Carter's coat pockets.

Now the panic started, because now the thief was going to find the bombs, and even if he was breaking the law himself, there was a chance that he'd sound the alarm, and their whole operation would be in jeopardy…

Just as his hand started to reach into the pocket where the bombs were being kept, Carter's fist shot out, catching him in the chin and knocking him back an inch.

The knife flashed in the dim light…

* * *

Lebeau and Newkirk heard a thud as they rounded the corner (having snuck around to the front so they could sneak up and assess the situation). It was in time to see a strange figure lying on the ground, and Carter still standing, flexing his fist.

"Andrew? What 'appened?" Newkirk whispered.

Carter glanced over his shoulder slightly. "He tried to rob me. He almost found the bombs, but I knocked him out."

Both his friends couldn't help feeling a little impressed that Carter, of all people, had managed that and gotten out of it unscathed.

"Did you get everything?" Carter spat out his gum into the wrapper, which he slipped into his pocket.

Lebeau nodded. "Oui, it's fine. Let's go before someone finds him."

* * *

By the time they were halfway to camp, Lebeau was back to feeling exasperated with Carter again. If anything, he'd become even clumsier than before; he kept tripping and stumbling, even when Lebeau was sure there wasn't a single twig in his way.

 _Seriously, why did we bring him?!_

And then he started lagging behind. Lebeau had to keep going back to drag him forwards, because if they got back early enough maybe they'd actually have time to catch a little sleep before roll call and it had been a long time since he'd had a good night's sleep and he didn't want to miss out on an opportunity and why was Carter being so slow?!

Eventually Newkirk came crunching back through the brush to see what the holdup was.

"Carter, we've got a bit of a deadline 'ere! Think you could pick up the pace a little?"

And then he noticed what they had been missing. He saw, even in the dim light, that Carter looked kind of pale, and his legs were shaking. He was leaning against a nearby tree too, one arm clenched against his side.

"...Carter?"

As risky as it was, he shone the flashlight on Carter-and blanched as he saw the dark red stain that was definitely not ketchup oozing out around his friend's arm, and dribbling onto his fingers, and now he was slipping down towards the forest floor-

* * *

Lebeau sat down with a thump, as colored spots started swirling in front of his eyes and his ears started ringing at the sight of so much red. He tilted his head back, trying to force himself to stay conscious.

Through the ringing he could hear Newkirk uttering an impressive string of curses, several of which Lebeau had never heard before, as he began examining the wound and tearing off one of his own shirt sleeves to try to staunch it.

"Why didn't you say something, you bloody idiot?!" he demanded, somehow managing to be loud and quiet at the same time.

Lebeau barely made out the slurred reply: "Lebeau doesn' like the sight o' blood."

It might as well have been a new stab wound, this time in the Frenchman's side. He took a second to process this, before protesting, "I like even less the sight of you dead, Carter!"

He made the mistake of looking over at his comrades, and felt himself nearly lose consciousness again because of all that blood. With a moan, he flopped down onto the ground and silently begged the _bon Dieu_ for the nausea to stop.

* * *

"Louis."

Newkirk was shaking his shoulder.

"Louis, I need you to 'elp me. Please, you need to get up."

Lebeau forced himself to stand, knowing what Newkirk probably needed him to do. Averting his eyes, he went to the side of Carter (who was now sitting, leaning against a nearby tree, with two shirt sleeves clumsily tied around his middle) that didn't have blood, and pulled his arm over his shoulder. Newkirk got the other side, and together they hoisted Carter to his feet. And they began to half-jog, half-drag their fallen friend back to camp.

* * *

Wilson just about had a conniption when he saw the injury (though nowhere near half as big as the one Hogan nearly had).

"You're lucky this isn't infected!" he scolded as he finished stitching it shut, having performed a hasty-yet-thorough surgery on their hurriedly-scrubbed table, after the torturous process of getting Carter into the passageway, and then up the ladder. "Also, do you have any idea how close this came to several of your vital organs?"

Carter just moaned softly into his coat sleeve, which he'd been biting down on this whole time.

Hogan paced like a caged tiger, wringing his hat between his fingers.

"Roll call's coming up soon," he said softly. "We can probably just tell Klink that you're sick-"

Then the sergeant opened his eyes.

"No," he said, voice also soft, but firm. "I can do it."

And slowly, shakily, he forced himself to his feet.

Wilson looked like he was going to have another conniption, but Carter said, "There might be a fuss in Dusseldorf if the guy who tried to mug me was a Gestapo officer in disguise or something, and Hochstetter might want to investigate. If someone's absent from roll call, even if the excuse is they're sick, he won't believe it, he'll come in and check me over personally and figure out the truth. It's better to give him as little to be suspicious about as possible."

He shot Wilson a halfheartedly cheeky grin. "Besides, I've heard that it's good to move around after something like this."

"Not immediately after!" the surgeon exploded.

"Then it's probably a good thing that we'll just be standing still for a while." And he took some hesitant steps to his bunk, where he gathered up his uniform so he could change back into it.

Wilson stopped him with a hand around his arm.

"After it's done, you are going right back to bed and staying there until I say otherwise. Is that clear?"

Carter nodded. "Yes, sir."

* * *

Hogan hoped that it would be a nice, quick inspection, with Klink just wanting to make sure they were all there, and hurrying back to his office so he could get out of the cold.

It wasn't.

Klink strutted back and forth, blathering something-or-other about whatever nonsense German propaganda said about how well the war was going for them. Hogan (for once) didn't pay attention; he was busy casting worried looks over at his sergeant.

Carter was holding up relatively well; standing more or less at his usual height, and if he was a little huddled in on himself and hugging his chest, that could be attributed to the cold. But a thin sheen of sweat was starting to gather on his forehead, and he was definitely getting paler by the minute.

 _He's being so brave...shut up already, Klink, please. Can't you tell he's in pain?_

 _No; that's the point of his coming out here in the first place._

Hogan felt helpless, unable to do anything for Carter.

He hated being helpless.

The whole inspection probably didn't last more than five minutes. But it was five minutes too many in Hogan's book. As Klink finally gave a smarmy salute and stalked back to the kommandantur, Newkirk surreptitiously put a supporting hand at Carter's elbow, just in time to help him keep standing so he could walk back into the barracks. At which point he and Kinch had to work together to move him into his bunk, because he'd used up all of his strength standing up straight and trying to look normal, and his legs all but turned into jelly.

* * *

Lebeau and Newkirk were sitting by Newkirk's bunk when he woke up late in the afternoon.

He blinked sleepily, and gave them a dazed smile.

"Hi, fellas."

"Ow you feelin', Carter?" Newkirk asked.

He grimaced. "Have you ever been stabbed?"

"Once or twice." At Lebeau's questioning glance, he said, "Long story." Then, back to Carter, "That bad?"

Carter nodded, and cleared his throat. "Water?"

Within seconds there was a fresh canteen at his lips, and he was allowed a few gulps.

Then Lebeau decided it was time to cut to the chase.

"Carter...thank you for caring about the fact that I don't like the sight of blood. It was...thoughtful of you."

Carter gave him a little smile. "I also didn't want you to pass out and force Newkirk to deal with two incapacitated people."

"...Thanks, mate." The Englander gave him another drink.

"But _please_ , Carter, _please_ tell us when you're hurt. We don't want to lose you because you have an uncared-for wound."

"'Kay." He let them rearrange his bedclothes so he was snuggled into them more securely. Then, apparently on the verge of sleep again (possibly due to the pain medication that had been in the water), he murmured, "I stubbed my toe on the way back to camp."

Newkirk and Lebeau both rolled their eyes good-naturedly.

* * *

 **Sorry if I inaccurately portrayed how to care for a stab wound or anything. For those Lebeau fans who are reading this (hi, Glossina :)), I hope I did him justice. Happy Easter, everyone.**


	7. Atoner

Nobody said much about it.

But Carter knew he'd messed up again.

And it was worse than normal, for him at least, because he felt like he hadn't just let down the colonel and everyone else, but he'd failed his ancestors too.

Of course, this probably seems like a major overreaction. And it probably was. But Carter still felt sick to his stomach every time he remembered his failure.

He'd tried to use his skills with bow and arrow to blow up the truck with the new jet fuel that was being transported right past their camp. And he'd completely missed the mark, so Newkirk had to step in and save the day.

He could imagine his grandfather shaking his head at him in sad disappointment, saying, "I taught you better than that, Little Deer."

He could imagine Angry Rabbit smacking him around the back of the head (an image encouraged by how often Newkirk did it, come to think of it), and demanding, "What did we spend all that time hunting for, bonehead? It was not so you could miss one easy shot!"

He didn't have to imagine the looks that had been on Hogan and Newkirk's faces right after it happened-the annoyance, the disgust.

The disappointment.

* * *

The fact that nobody in camp was making a fuss or ribbing him for it somehow made it worse. It was like they just shrugged their shoulders and said, "Oh well, Carter messed up again. What else is new?"

He shouldn't have messed this up.

It was part of his heritage.

It was important to him, darn it.

* * *

So Carter began to practice. Whenever he got the chance, every day if he could get away with it, he would take his bow and arrow into the lab, and set up targets wherever he could, and just shoot. And to his relief, he began to improve.

Maybe it was too late for him to be doing this.

Colonel Hogan wasn't likely to _ever_ ask him to use a bow and arrow again, and it didn't seem like anyone else would either.

But Carter decided he didn't care.

He just wanted to make sure if the need ever arose, he wouldn't be found lacking again.

* * *

 **This one is short, I know. It also has a lot more angst than the others. But it fits, at least to me. And yes, it takes place right after "Drums Along the Dusseldorf."**

 **Sorry if there's any inconsistencies with the episode.**

 **And no, I don't know yet if I'll write any where Carter's improved skills with bow and arrow will be needed, but I like to have the option open.**


	8. Polyglot

**This is thanks to a review by Bookwyrm; it doesn't fully comply with his/her suggestions, but I hope you will enjoy it nonetheless. Again, sorry for inconsistencies.**

* * *

There was a crash in the barracks, followed by the metallic cacophony of objects being scattered across the table, and concluding with the sound of rapid-fire cursing in French.

Down in the tunnels, by the radio station, Hogan sighed, and Newkirk muttered, "What's got up 'is nose now?" in reference to Lebeau (since it was unlikely that anybody else in the stalag would be yelling in French).

Carter said, eyes fixed on a piece of paper that he was playing with, "He can't find his spatula, so the pudding's gonna burn if he doesn't get it soon. He thinks you took it, Newkirk, and if you did, he wants to find it and stuff it down your throat."

There was a moment of silence before he finally looked up, and realized everyone was staring at him.

"...What? It's what he just said."

* * *

"Since when can you understand French?" Kinch finally asked, eyes narrowed slightly.

The paper was folded and twisted a few times.

"You mean you guys can't?"

"...No, Carter." Hogan leaned forward. "Has Lebeau been giving you lessons?"

Carter giggled slightly. "Not exactly. He talks in his sleep. Besides, I've been around him for almost three years now; that's given me enough time to pick up most of what he's saying. I mean, it's mostly a lot of angry stuff, including some things," his ears turned a little red, "that Mom wouldn't want me to say, but I can also tell a girl that I think she's really pretty, or instruct someone how to make creme brulee, and stuff like that."

The other three men glanced at each other in a way that demanded, _How can he do that?! We've been here the same length of time, and still barely understand that 'bonjour' means hello, and 'boche' means German!_

* * *

Carter prattled on, oblivious, "It probably wouldn't be that hard to learn more, because it's based on a romance language, so it comes from Latin."

"Wait, hold up," Newkirk interrupted. "Are you tryin' to tell us that you can also speak Latin?"

An enthusiastic nod. "I took some classes back home, before I joined up. It's handy for knowing a lot of science stuff. I would have taken Greek too, because that's also useful, but that's kind of harder because it's not even the same alphabet as ours. But as long as I have my Latin dictionary, it makes it easier for me to learn lots of other languages, even though sometimes I forget what language I'm speaking and switch off."

"...Any other languages you know?" Hogan asked.

"'E also speaks Lakotaese," Newkirk cut in.

Carter snickered. "That's not what it's really called, but yeah. I speak Lakhota. And I know a few insults in Swahili."

A scoff from the Englander.

He shrugged a little. "Hey, you never know when they might be useful."

* * *

Another burst of French came from upstairs; it sounded less angry than the earlier one. Even though it was slightly muffled, Carter still looked up in excitement.

"Oh good; he found the spatula. So the pudding's safe."

And with that, he finished folding the paper, revealing that it had been turned into an elegant origami butterfly.

Carter gently pressed his thumb on the top of it a few times, making its wings flap, before standing up, making it fly its way over and setting it on Kinch's head.

"I think he likes you," he said, before heading to the ladder and tripping on the lowest rung, almost breaking it under his foot before he regained his balance and scurried upstairs.

* * *

Kinch gently removed the paper butterfly from his head, and gave it an amused smile.

"No wonder he learned German so fast."

Newkirk shook his head slowly.

"Next thing you know, we'll find out 'e's learned the secret language of animals or something."

"He does have a pretty close relationship with that mouse of his," Hogan mused in semi-seriousness.

Newkirk threw up his hands in exasperation.

"Bloody -ll."


	9. Philosopher

**So sorry for keeping you waiting for so long; I swear I didn't mean to drag this out. My main excuse, paltry though it may be, is both laziness and getting a new job that's a graveyard shift which has been messing with my schedule something horrible.**

 **Also, in answer to your questions, Bookwyrm (this is the only way I can reply to you)-1. I know that German is not Latin-based; my point is that Carter has a talent for languages in general. 2. I didn't know origami wasn't popular back then when I wrote the scene, so for how he knew that and Swahili, maybe he's just read some rather obscure books, shall we say? Everyone okay with that?**

 **I think this is going to be my final chapter for now. I've gotten an idea for a new story that's kind of a companion to this work, if anyone is interested; still working on thinking it out. It's going to involve serious whump for Carter, if you're into that sort of thing, and drama and stuff.**

 **Sorry, I'll let you read the chapter now.**

* * *

"Life probably would have been kinda different if I hadn't enlisted when I did," Carter mused, leaning on his hand.

Felix the mouse glanced up from his attempt at chewing through the piece of carrot he'd given him, before biting down on it again.

"I mean, I probably would still be working at the drugstore, and woulda gotten married to Mary Jane by now." His stomach twisted at the memory of her name; despite what he'd said about there being plenty more fish in the sea, he wasn't really that over her. He just...understood her point of view. There was no telling when he'd be back in America, much less no longer a prisoner of war, and odds were they weren't even the same people they'd been when he'd first proposed to her. That didn't mean it didn't hurt to think about her, or that he was sure he wanted to see her again anytime soon.

"...Of course, I probably woulda gotten drafted anyway, and just shown up in the war later." Carter drummed the fingers of his other hand on the tabletop.

They were down in his lab; since he wasn't working on any new explosives or dangerous chemicals at the moment, it had seemed safe to bring Felix here to stretch his little legs, get a change of scenery. And while he'd been letting the mouse run around the table, and given him a fresh carrot that he'd swiped from Lebeau's kitchen, he'd started thinking. Even though some of the guys would claim it was dangerous for him to do that.

* * *

"What if there had never been a war?" he asked aloud, looking down at the mouse.

"Then I'd never have come here at all. I could have said goodbye to Grandpa...so I'd probably be the Keeper of the Soul, and be trying to live a harmonious life all the time, back in Muncie." A brief smile crossed his face at the mental image, before it suddenly saddened.

"But then I wouldn't have met all the guys. Or you." Gently he brushed a finger across Felix's back.

"I mean, sure, Kinch and the Colonel are Americans too, but what're the odds I ever woulda met them? And no way would I ever meet Newkirk or Lebeau. I never woulda gotten to watch Newkirk do his card tricks, or tasted Lebeau's strudel." Carter felt his mouth water appreciatively; something he and Sergeant Schultz had in common.

Was it necessarily better this way?

It didn't seem right to use that word to describe how things had worked out, considering the number of people who'd suffered and died on account of the war. Just having that sort of thought caused a knot of shame to develop.

But all the same...now that he'd come to Stalag 13, and become one of Papa Bear's cubs, Carter couldn't imagine life without his friends in it.

He wasn't sure how to voice what he was feeling, or even if anyone could give a definite answer to the questions he didn't know how to ask. So he focused his attention back on Felix, who had one cheek bulging with carrot, and smiled.

"You know, you're making me hungry too." He got up, and began searching the shelves for potential snacks.

"Oh boy! Crackers."

* * *

A few seconds later, people up in the barracks heard a startled yelp, followed by embarrassed laughter.

From his bunk, Newkirk hid a smirk behind his magazine.

Justice had been served.


End file.
